


I'm Weak, my Love

by Loriella



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cock Warming, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier likes having things in his mouth okay, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Praise Kink, Subspace, kinda??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22592866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loriella/pseuds/Loriella
Summary: “You were going to do it,” the bard says quietly, and before Geralt has time to ask to elaborate, Jaskier continues: “You were willing to kill an innocent creature and give up your sword for me, Geralt.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 537
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	I'm Weak, my Love

“You’re not coming with me, Jaskier,” Geralt sighs and tightens his hold on Roach’s reins, making her nicker softly and flick her ear.

Jaskier stops in his tracks.

“What?”

Geralt doesn’t answer, doesn’t even slow down to wait for him. Jaskier feels a hot rush of anger spread low in his stomach as he stomps towards the Witcher.

“You can’t do this to me, Geralt. You _know_ I need a new source of inspiration. Who’s going to write songs about your heroic deeds if there’s no one there to see them?”

When Geralt remains silent, Jaskier crosses his arms and turns away petulantly, doing everything not to stomp his foot. 

It takes them a few more minutes to get to the village and then find an old-looking, run down tavern full of flushed faces. Geralt strides towards the counter, untying the little bag with coins from his belt in the process, and not even bothering to acknowledge the looks from the patrons.

“One room,” he grumbles and tosses a few coins to the comely girl standing behind the counter. She looks him up and down curiously, her eyes stopping on Geralt's tousled silver hair, his sword, gleaming dangerously behind his back and, lastly, on the medallion on his chest.

“A Witcher, are ya?” she says with a pleased smile. “Whatever brought you here, Geralt of Rivia?”

She glances behind Grealt’s back to look at Jaskier, who stayed behind to tie Roach to the hitching post outside.

“And two beers,” Geralt says grimly, adds a few more coins and turns around to make his way to the lonely table in the far corner of the tavern.

The girl frowns at him and beckons Jaskier closer.

“Is he always so-” she stops to search for the right word. “Grumpy?”

Jaskier giggles, perfectly aware that Geralt’s ears are sensitive enough to easily catch what she is saying.

“You have no idea,” he says and puts the key to the room in his pocket, frowning a little at how the fabric bunches up around it. 

Jaskier quickly makes his way to the table and sits on a wooden bench opposite Geralt.  
  
“To a new adventure,” he smiles and tips his cup to the Witcher before taking a sip. Geralt lifts his drink and downs half of it in one gulp without much enthusiasm.

Geralt considers himself a patient man, but everyone has their limits. It takes him all of fifteen minutes of listening to Jaskier’s excited ramblings before his patience finally snaps. Even though he likes seeing that happy little glint in Jaskier’s eyes when he talks about his new songs and how people from every single kingdom are going to sing them, Geralt can’t let the bard come on a hunt with him. 

“You’re not coming with me.”

Jaskier pays no heed to the Witcher’s words.

“Think about it, half lion, half eagle! It’s mad! I couldn’t even think of such a beast.”

“Jaskier.”

“How large is it? Do you think it’s bigger than a cyclops? I think it’s a bit smaller than a dragon. But then, what if-”

“Jaskier!” Geralt roars, alerting everyone in the tavern. And while most people look at him with horror, there is no fear in Jaskier’s eyes. They are shining with pure _challenge_. Geralt sighs. “I’m going alone, end of discussion.”

“You owe me, Geralt,” Jaskier hisses, pointing a finger at him in what he hopes is a threatening way. “You know you owe me. If it wasn’t for me, no one would come to you for help. Everyone would still be afraid of the ruthless Butcher of Blaviken!”

And it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair to call him that, when Jaskier knows perfectly well Geralt doesn’t deserve that name. Jaskier _knows_ that Geralt always tries to do the right thing, and if there is no right, he chooses the lesser of two evils.

It takes all of Jaskier to catch the words of apology trying to slip from his mouth when he looks up to see a brief flash of hurt in Geralt’s eyes. But no matter how much he wants to take the biting words back, Jaskier can’t let Geralt go alone. Can’t even think about the Witcher standing face to face with a fucking _griffon_ and him not being there to help. 

“Fuck,” Geralt swears and downs the rest of the beer before standing up suddenly. “Fine. Do whatever you want.”

The Witcher goes up to the counter to order two more beers. And then two more. With each new order, the amount of concerned glances from girl behind the counter to the table in the corner of the tavern doubles. There now sits a fully sober Witcher and a drunk out of his mind bard. 

Somewhere between the second and the third cup, Jaskier becomes suspicious. 

“Why are you being so generous all of the sudden?” he narrows his eyes at Geralt, who only grunts in reply.

Somewhere between the third and the fourth cup, Jaskier remembers that he is, in fact, a bard. And even if he is stuck in a prolonged writer’s block to write new songs, it doesn’t mean he can’t entertain the guests with the old ones.

Jaskier dances and twirls between the tables, masterfully running his fingers over the strings and singing the most ridiculous songs. Geralt is only left to wonder how the bard can possibly maintain even a semblance of control after so much alcohol. He sits through a few more songs, admiring Jaskier's fluid dances with a fond smile on his face before stepping outside to check on Roach.

There isn’t a fifth cup, because one of the patrons suddenly decides that he has ownership over the bard, so the next time Jaskier is passing his table, he puts his hand around Jaskier's lithe waist and pulls him roughly onto his lap, causing everyone present to erupt in drunken laughter.

“You can sing, little bardling, I'll give ya that,” he slurs and runs his hands over Jaskier's stiff shoulders. “Let's see what else can you do.”

The man's hand moves to Jaskier's chest and starts unbuttoning his doublet clumsily.

“Hey! Hey, stop it!” Jaskier screams and goes to stand up from the man's lap, only to be held tightly by the throat. And despite the dangerous mix of alcohol and the lack of oxygen clouding his mind, the bard makes his best effort to call Geralt for help. A quiet, wheezing little cry comes out of his throat, which only fires up the attacker. 

It's then that the door swings open to reveal a furious looking Geralt standing behind it. The Witcher meets Jaskier's terrified eyes and lowers his gaze to the open doublet and a delicate silk shirt underneath it, scrunched by greasy, fat fingers of some drunk. An almost animalistic roar escapes his chest as he pounces on the man.

Jaskier can hardly keep his eyes open as he watches the scene unfolding before him, suddenly feeling the effects of nearly four cups of beer weighing down on his mind. It takes Geralt no longer than half a minute to have the man clutching at his nose and screaming hysterically on the floor.

It takes him even less to throw Jaskier over his shoulder and bring him up to the second floor, not even giving him the chance to do it himself. He probably couldn’t anyway, but it would be nice to have a choice. A few squeaks of the rickety staircase later, Geralt is setting Jaskier back down on the floor.

“The key,” he growls impatiently.

Jaskier flinches a bit at the tone and looks down on his shoes. 

“Jaskier, focus. I need you to give me the key.”

“P-pocket,” Jaskier stutters, clutching at Geralt’s broad shoulders to hold himself upright. 

Geralt sighs when Jaskier doesn’t even try to move to retrieve the key. He puts his palm on the bard’s thigh gently, but Jaskier- he flinches again at the touch.

“It’s just me, Jaskier,” Geralt says gently. “You’re okay, you’re safe.”

Only after Jaskier nods does Geralt get the key. He opens the door quickly and leads the bard towards the bed.

The last thing Jaskier feels before falling asleep are Geralt’s calloused fingers gently carding through his hair.

***

The first thing Jaskier feels after waking up is a splitting headache and a parched throat, which is never a particularly pleasant combination to wake up to. He goes to rub his eyes, but. _He can't move his arm._ He tries to lower the other one, but it won’t budge. Jaskier’s throat constricts around a panicked whimper when he looks up to see both of his hands tied to the iron headboard of the bed.

And he was still _drunk_ and still _sleepy_ just a second ago. And it feels _so_ long ago, because now Jaskier is fully awake and quickly stumbling towards a panic attack. And even though his mind is swimming from the desperate and rushed intakes of breath, he manages to lift his head to see if there is anyone else in the room. The small window just above the bed lets in the tiniest bit of light from the sun that has just started to rise, but it's enough to tell that the room is empty. Jaskier breathes out in relief and plops his head back down. 

He tries to yank his hand down again, hoping it will loosen the rope, which does nothing if not make it bite even more harshly into his wrists.

Jaskier tries to relax and think rationally for a second, which is entirely too long, considering his current situation and the remnants of alcohol in his system. His mind immediately goes to last night, most of which he can’t really remember, no matter how much he tries, but he will never forget the feel of some stranger’s hands sliding all over his body. The feel of greasy fingers of some drunk, trying to take off his clothes and-

Jaskier shakes his head to stop that thought from going any further. He can’t even think about what would that man do if Geralt didn’t step in.

So maybe it was him. Him and his little gang that was laughing so merrily when the buttons on Jaskier’s doublet came undone. Maybe they sneaked into the room when he was sleeping to get back at him? It would be cowardly to attack a man when he was at his most vulnerable, but then again, Jaskier doubts if that man cares much about honor or bravery.

No, it doesn’t make sense. They would never be able to defeat Geralt. And why would they tie Jaskier up? Also, why isn’t Geralt in the room?

A wild thought passes through Jaskier’s mind, and he’s quick to discard it, because Geralt wouldn’t do that to him.

He wouldn’t.

Would he?

Except that is exactly what Geralt would do to make sure Jaskier doesn’t come after him on a hunt.

Jaskier throws his head up and an outraged cry leaves his chest when he recognizes the fucking _rope_ Geralt tied him up with. It's the same rope he used to tie Roach to the hitching post just the night before. 

“Fuck, Geralt!” Jaskier screams, violently thrashing in his restraints in a desperate attempt to loosen the rope. “You fucking barbarian! Let me go!” 

Jaskier keeps screaming until his voice nearly gives out. He screams until he hears the sound of someone walking just outside the door.

“Hey! Hey, help me!”

The clicking sound of heels gently hitting the floor stops. The doorknob turns, but the door stays shut. 

“Why are you screaming in the middle of the night?” comes a familiar voice from behind the door. And Jaskier can tell the girl is trying to sound annoyed, but there’s a subtle note of concern in her voice.

“Aren’t you that girl from the counter?”

She hums.

“Meredith.”

“Meredith! I’m Jaskier, the bard. I came here last night with the Witcher.”

“I remember you, Jaskier. I had to scrub that asshole’s blood off the floor because of you.”

“Yeah, that’s me! I- I mean it wasn’t my fault! He was the one who grabbed me, you saw it! When I sang. How did you like my songs, by the way? I feel like I need to refresh my repertoire, but-”

“Did you need help or should I go?” she asks impatiently. 

“Wait! I need you to open the door. I- uh- I think it’s stuck or something.”

Just when Meredith turns to go get the second key, Jaskier shouts:

“Bring a knife!”

She sighs.

“Only because your… whatever it was, tripled my profit last night.”

Just a couple of minutes and a few panicked whimpers later, Jaskier is freed of his bonds. He's sitting on the bed, carefully massaging his sore wrists, while Meredith stands beside him, her suspicious gaze never leaving the torn up ropes.

“Did Geralt leave you like this? Jaskier, you should know how irresponsible it is to just leave your partner tied up to-”

Jaskier makes a little choking sound at the implication. 

“It’s not like that!” he shoots up from the bed, his face flushed red with embarrassment.

Meredith raises her eyebrow.

“It’s not?”

“No! He would never- I mean. Geralt had his reasons. He just wanted what’s best for me.”

And he really does believe that. He does. Geralt always puts Jaskier and his safety first, but no matter how appreciative he is, Jaskier can’t shake the dreadful thought of Geralt getting hurt and him not being there to help.

“You’re not going after him, are you?” Meredith asks when Jaskier is already halfway out the door, a bag with medicine and a few elixirs thrown over his shoulder hastily. The bard stops, not sure how to answer. “Here, take this.”

Meredith reaches around to pull a dagger in a leather sheath from her belt and hands it to Jaskier. He blinks at the weapon and looks at the girl, a question clear in his eyes.

“Try looking like me and running a tavern,” she says, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Jaskier takes the dagger and puts it in his waistband. “I hope you know what you're doing.”

“Me too,” he says before stepping out of the room.

***

A baby griffon. That's what was described to Geralt as a ferocious beast, ready to pounce and dig his razor-sharp claws in the flesh of a child. That’s what Geralt was asked to kill to bring peace to the village.

But the griffon can't even _fly_ properly yet. Barely the size of a lion, it's nothing if not innocent in the deaths of the women who come to these forests for mushrooms and berries. 

But now the beast is growling defensively, his mighty wings outstretched and body pressed low to the disheveled nest. In one quick, smooth motion, Geralt unsheathes his sword and points it at the enemy, his brows furrowed in concentration. 

“Yield,” he growls, stepping between the griffon and a bunch of hunters with their bows held high and ready. “Leave the village and I’ll spare your lives.”

Geralt’s benevolent mood vanishes as soon as he recognizes the drunk who groped Jaskier in one of the hunters. The man laughs.

“And how’s this: we kill you and that filthy beast and bring your heads to the people of the village. How much do you think they would pay for the head of the famous Butcher of Blaviken?”

So he knows who Geralt is and still wants to go against him. Then so be it. 

Geralt raises the sword over his head and bends his knees a little, ready to pounce. The hunters draw their bows.

And then there’s a scream.

Geralt’s heart, which normally beats slower that a human’s anyway, stops completely. One of the hunters comes out of the woods, one hand holding Jaskier’s wrists behind his back and the other clenching his bleeding shoulder. Every time Jaskier tries to struggle or wiggle out of the bandit’s hold, the man tightens his grip, pushes his fingers into the bard’s wound, making him bite his lip to keep the screams in.

Now both, the griffon _and_ Geralt are growling lowly, their animalistic instincts on full alert. 

“Look who I found strolling around the woods,” the man says, kicking Jaskier in the shins to make him fall on his knees in front of the hunters. 

Jaskier looks at the men with pure hatred in his eyes before stopping on the one on the middle. Understanding dawns on him.

“Isn’t it the little bardling from the tavern? Recognize me, do ya?” he presses his sword to Jaskier’s throat. “Didn’t your mother tell you it’s dangerous to play alone in the woods?”

Jaskier swallows thickly, everything in him screaming to submit, but he was never particularly good at biting his tongue.

“Can you cut the pretentious monologue and get to the point?”

The bandit sneers. 

“The bardling can bite, huh?” he moves his hand to the back of Jaskier’s head and yanks on his hair roughly. “You like it fast, darling?”

Before Jaskier can make another snarky remark and dig himself an even deeper hole, Geralt roars:

“Don’t fucking touch him!”

And that gets the hunter’s interest. He waves his hand, signaling for one of his men to take Jaskier and drag him to the side. Geralt follows the bard with his eyes and then looks back at the bandit.

“The griffon is yours, if you give me the bard.”

The bandit pretends to think about it for a second before shaking his head.

“It’s a bit too late for that, I’m afraid. I didn’t murder all those girls just for nothin’. I want interest.”

A beat passes. A sudden sense of paralyzing dread washes over Jaskier as he puts the puzzle pieces together.

“You killed _three_ women just to blame it on the griffon and get coin for its head?” he hisses.

“Aye, I did.”

“You fucking monsters, all of you!” Jaskier starts thrashing violently in the hold of his captor. “One of them had a _baby_ , you brute-”

“What do you want?” Geralt cuts the bard off, seemingly unfazed, but his grip on the sword tightens.

“Now we’re talking. I want the griffon’s head, all your coin and,” the bandit looks over Geralt, unsure of what else to ask for. “Your sword.”

 _No. No fucking way._ Geralt would never-

“Fine,” Geralt says, lowering his sword. 

“Attaboy. Now go kill the beast.”

The griffon must have sensed something, because when Geralt turns around, it’s back on all of its fours, wings spread wide and beak clacking menacingly.

“No, Geralt, don’t!” Jaskier screams, his voice high-pitched and desperate.

Geralt turns his head slightly, and when Jaskier catches his gaze, he raises his shoulders a little so that the doublet rides up enough to expose the dagger, tucked safely behind his waistband. Geralt’s eyes flicker down and then back to Jaskier’s face. Jaskier nods, as if saying ‘yeah, I can take this guy’, and his heart jumps a little when Geralt’s mouth quirks up.

There is a beat of silence and then-

“Now!” Geralt roars, turns and _lunges_ at the enemy, his movements swift and precise as he dodges and ducks from the arrows.

Jaskier acts on instinct. He throws his leg out and kicks his captor in the knee so hard, he hears it _crack,_ throwing him off balance with a pained cry. As soon as the man lets go of his wrists, Jaskier grabs the dagger from his waistband, unsheathes it and puts the blade through his gut.

There’s blood. There is _so much blood_ , and some of it somehow gets into Jaskier´s throat and he wants to retch. The bitter metallic taste slides down to his stomach, makes him double over in a violent coughing fit. And he can hear the clashing of metal against metal, the grunts and the agonized cries. And the smell of sweat and blood in the air is making his eyes water, and he’s _really not made for this_. Jaskier knows he should probably move, if not to help Geralt, then to get out of his way, but just can’t bring himself to. 

When Jaskier finally plucks up the courage to look up, three of the five men are lying motionless on the ground. There is only one left. The man holds his sword high and ready as Geralt lunges at him. Their swords meet with a sharp clanging sound and Jaskier gasps when the hunter brings his knee to Geralt’s stomach, making him grunt and stumble back. The Witcher throws a quick glance at Jaskier, his face and clothes, all covered in blood, and swings forward with a growl. His sword clanks against the blade of the enemy again and again, and Jaskier didn’t even notice how Geralt led the fight away from him. And even though the men are now obscured by the trees, Jaskier can still see Geralt pin the hunter against one of them, his sword held tight to his throat. 

The man laughs.

“I hope you rot somewhere in a ditch with your little bitch of a b-”

And just like that, Geralt swipes his sword across his neck. The hunter falls to the ground with a loud thud, his hands going to clutch at his slashed throat. And Jaskier- Jaskier watches as the man’s eyes turn glassy and his face pale, and somehow he is _still gurgling out blood_ until- 

Everything stops.

There are five bodies lying on the forest floor, lifeless and not posing any threat, and yet Jaskier has never felt so uneasy in his life before. Maybe he would be better off in a tavern, still tied to the bed, maybe he shouldn’t have come here after all.

When the adrenaline in Jaskier’s blood starts to wear off, the pain comes in. He lets out a quiet hiss and grabs his shoulder, making a face at how sticky the doublet is. He looks up to see Geralt rushing towards him, his expression alarmed. The Witcher crouches down and puts his hand on Jaskier´s good shoulder gently. 

“Hey, Jas. How bad did they get you?”

“I- uh. I think it just grazed my shoulder, don’t worry,” a new rush of pain washes over Jaskier as he says it. He feels lightheaded.

It takes him just one look at Geralt’s skeptical face to know that he’s not selling it. Must be all the blood.

“Look, I’m fine,” the bard tries to stand up, which is probably a bad idea, because now there are two Geralts and twice as much concern in all four of his eyes. The Witcher must sense something, because the next second he’s catching Jaskier in his arms and swearing loudly as the bard faints.

***

Silence. It’s been so long since Geralt heard the sound of silence, and frankly, he doesn’t remember it feeling so lonely. It was fine when Jaskier was still knocked out and tucked in Geralt’s chest as they rode on Roach, but when the bard finally came to and still wouldn’t say a single word, it became unbearable.

It’s their second day on the road and Geralt has just found a nice little clearing in the woods and set up camp for the night, all while Jaskier sat on a log and stared off into the distance. He hears Geralt tell Roach to look after him and then disappear into the woods.

When Jaskier finally blinks back into reality, it’s to a stick poking him in the chest. His arm goes to grab it, but plops down again as soon as he sees a roasted piece of meat on it.

“Jaskier, take it,” Geralt says, annoyance and concern dripping from his voice.

“I’m not hungry.”

And even if Geralt wasn’t expecting Jaskier to talk, he tries not to let it show.

“Yes, you are. You haven’t eaten anything in two days.”

And Geralt’s _still poking him._

“I was out for most of yesterday.”

“Don’t get smart with me. If you’re not going to take the fucking stick, I’m going to shove that whole hare down your throat, Jaskier.”

It’s really not fair for such perfect joke opportunities to come up when Jaskier’s not in the mood to make them. 

He takes the stick.

Jaskier eats, tentatively biting off little pieces of meat and enjoying the soft cracking of the fire. And he keeps quiet when Geralt tries to steal glances at him to make sure the bard is actually eating, even though they are not exactly _discreet_. When most of the meat is gone, he puts the stick back by the fire and Geralt hums, satisfied. 

Any other time, the little praising sound would cause Jaskier’s heart to beat a little faster, but right now he’s very much focused on something else.

“What in the world am I _wearing_?” he asks, dumbfounded. He doesn’t remember owning a linen tunic and leggings that are barely covering his ankles. 

Geralt looks away briefly.

“Your doublet was torn and soaked through with blood,” he says, apologetically. “Meredith lent you some spare clothes. I know it’s not what you’re used to, but-”

“No, they’re fine,” Jaskier rushes to reassure Geralt. He bites his lip, unsure if he wants to ask the next question and open up the conversation. “So you went back to the tavern?”

Geralt nods.

“When you lost consciousness, I had no choice but to go back. The arrow went through the side of your shoulder,” Jaskier winces at the memory. “There were no healers in that godforsaken village, so we had to make do with what Meredith had. The bandages will hold for now, but I’m taking you to a real doctor.”

Jaskier feels his head start to spin as the memories of what happened start to cloud his mind. And maybe it wasn’t his most sane thought, but right until that moment, he hoped all of that was just some kind of fever dream his brain came up with. It’s not.

So he really did kill that man. _He killed a man._

Jaskier must have made some kind of noise, pitiful enough to make Geralt sit beside him and kiss the top of his head gently.

“You’re okay, Jas. You’re safe,” It’s the same mantra every time Geralt senses a spike of fear in Jaskier, and every time, it makes his heart lighter, just a little. “Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind, petal?”

Jaskier just whines and shakes his head quickly. And he’s perfectly aware just how childish he’s acting, needing to be coddled through something Geralt experiences almost every day, but the images are going round his head like a swarm of buzzing bees and his aching shoulder is acting as a constant reminder of what happened. And even though he’s not in danger, and nothing’s really happening, everything feels like too much.

“You’re going to feel so much better once you talk about it, Jas. I promise. You can’t just pretend nothing happened,” Geralt says gently and rubs Jaskier’s back soothingly, feeling him relax a little under his touch.

“That was my exact plan, actually,” the bard takes a calming breath. “Okay. Um. Okay. I just need to ask what happened to the griffon first.”

Geralt hums.

“The griffon’s fine, didn’t even get hurt.”

“But won’t people try to kill it? Everyone thinks it killed those women.”

“Not anymore. I told Meredith everything that happened. Well, she demanded I tell her. She’s going to spread the word.”

“Do you think people will believe her?” Jaskier asks as he looks up at Geralt. The Witcher nods.

“They trust her. One of the perks of being an innkeeper.”

Jaskier smiles, satisfied.

And then an image flashes before his eyes again, bright and vivid. Blood gushing out of an open wound dead eyes staring right into his soul his shaking hands holding a dagger- 

Jaskier shudders and shakes his head, hoping the memories will go away, but to no avail. He feels Geralt pull him closer.

“Tell me, little flower.”

“It’s the hunter. The one who was holding me,” Geralt hums softly. “I just can’t get the image of him dying at my feet out of my head. I can’t stop reliving it.”

Geralt’s hands go tighter around Jaskier.

“You’d think with my habit of getting in trouble all the time, I’d be used to this. But I’m not, Geralt. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ve never actually killed a man before.”

“You’re only 20, Jaskier.”

“Are you saying I still have time to go on a killing spree?”

Geralt sighs.

“No, I’m saying you’re still young. I know it’s hard, but you can’t let it get to you like that. It’s either you or them.”

“I know that, I do,” Jaskier nods. “It had to be done. It just- it still bothers me for some reason,” the bard says, nothing but hesitation in his voice. And the way he looks – all lost and confused – makes Geralt’s heart _ache_. He squeezes Jaskier’s hand gently.

“It’s normal to feel that way, petal. I’d be concerned if you didn’t.”

“Do you?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you feel that way, too?” Jaskier asks with trepidation. Geralt shakes his head. 

“It’s different with me, Jas. I was made to do this.”

“Well, that sounds awfully morbid,” the bard says with a stiff smile and Geralt just hums in agreement. 

Silence falls between them, just for a minute, until Jaskier starts fidgeting again.

“You were going to do it,” the bard says quietly, and before Geralt has time to ask to elaborate, Jaskier continues: “You were willing to kill an innocent creature and give up your _sword_ for me, Geralt.”

The Witcher looks at Jaskier in puzzlement. 

“I would give up everything to save you.”

“I know that, Geralt,” Jaskier lets out a frustrated groan. “But I want to be able to stand up for myself. I want to protect myself, so you don’t have to worry about me all the time.”

“I wouldn’t worry if you didn’t go on hunts with me,” Geralt says with a slight accusatory note in his voice that Jaskier chose to ignore. 

“You know that’s not going to happen.”

Geralt sighs. He does know that.

“I want you to teach me to fight. And wield a sword.”

“Jaskier-”

“No, listen to me. I’m tired of being scared,” Jaskier says, determination seeping from his voice. “I want this.”

“Does this have anything to do with what happened at the tavern?” Geralt asks carefully, but the way Jaskier flinches is answer enough. “I’ll teach you, petal. But you have to tell me about that, too.”

When Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand and holds it in his own, the bard’s not really sure if it’s a gesture of affection or a means to prevent his escape. Probably both. 

“There’s not much to tell. I used to sing in taverns and inns all the time, before I met you. There were always whistles and filthy comments, but never- never this,” Jaskier bites his lip at the memory. “I pride myself in knowing how to work a crowd, but maybe I overestimated myself when I thought performing drunk was a great idea.”

Geralt feels a pang of guilt in his chest at Jaskier’s words, if only he had known his plan would backfire so much.

“When he pulled me in his lap, I- His hands were all over me, Geralt. I tried to call for you, and you weren’t _there._ And he just _wouldn’t stop touching me_ -” Jaskier’s voice turns into a choked whisper as his throat tightens. His heart is beating so fast, Geralt can easily hear it hammering against his rib cage. And it takes him all of his willpower not to growl at the sudden wave of possessiveness rushing through his veins. He manhandles Jaskier to sit in his lap, and the bard goes easily, eager for the Witcher’s touch. “I still feel his hands on me. I want to feel _you_ , Witcher. Make me yours again.” 

And that- that gets Geralt growling, low in his chest, and the sudden need to _take_ overshadows any rational thought he might’ve had. He sinks both of his hands in Jaskier’s hair and pulls him down until their lips meet in a searing kiss. They kiss until they’re all out of breath, until Jaskier starts whimpering softly into Geralt’s mouth and rutting against his thigh.

When Geralt finally pulls away, he can’t resist the urge to stroke his thumb across Jaskier’s lower lip, bitten red and glossy with spit. Jaskier’s lips part, almost on instinct, and he can’t contain a filthy moan that falls from them when Geralt slips his thumb into the wet heat of his mouth. 

They both freeze, just for a moment. Jaskier, because he feels a wave of hot shame spread over his body, and Geralt, because he now knows _exactly_ what his bard needs.

See, Jaskier's always found the gentle weight of Geralt's fingers on his tongue soothing.

When Geralt first did it, it was no more than a joke, a way to shut Jaskier up, but then the bard's eyes shut tightly and he went _pliant_ in Geralt's hold, and all of his pent up anxious energy suddenly disappeared. It took time for the reality of what happened to dawn on Jaskier, but when it did, his cheeks turned redder than his favourite scarlet doublet and his eyes got teary from embarrassment. He started stuttering apologies and explanations, only to be cut off by Geralt's soft lips touching his own. And then Geralt knew it was more that a joke for Jaskier.

Since then, it was just something they did when Jaskier would become too antsy or anxious, when he'd need something to take him out of his own head, just for a while.

So when Geralt pushes two of his fingers into Jaskier's mouth, it's not sudden, nor is it new. Jaskier takes it, and the gentle weight on his tongue is so familiar and so welcome, he has to bite back a moan that tries to slip past his lips. 

"There we go, petal," Geralt murmurs as he slides his other hand down to splay his fingers over the small of Jaskier's back. A possessive, almost selfish gesture that makes a shiver run through the bard's body.

Jaskier moves his head forward, wants to feel Geralt's fingers in the back of his throat, wants Geralt to make him take it, wants to give up control. But it doesn't work like that, not quite. It's a slow process that takes careful attention on Geralt's side and patience on Jaskier's.

The Witcher hums softly and holds the bard back, but can't help a fond smile at Jaskier's eagerness. 

They sit like that for a while, not moving, just enjoying each other's presence and the heat of their bodies pressed so close together again. And it feels so tender and intimate, always does when Jaskier needs Geralt to take over. Geralt starts to rub small, soothing circles into the dip of Jaskier's back and listens to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. 

But as time goes on, Jaskier starts to struggle. His brows furrow, and his eyes squeeze shut, almost as if he tries to force himself into that headspace that he craves to reach. And when Jaskier starts to suck around Geralt's fingers and fidget on his lap, it only makes the Witcher growl lowly and his cock grow harder. 

"Settle down, Jas. Shh," Geralt tries to shush the squirming bard on his lap, but Jaskier just shakes his head and presses his teeth into Geralt's fingers. 

It's accidental, they both know that, but Jaskier's eyes fly open, and there's so much distress, so much fear swimming in them, Geralt feels his heart ache with the need to soothe, to make his bard feel whole again.

Geralt carefully slides his fingers out and before he can even say anything, Jaskier's face _crumples_. He shuts his eyes again to stop the tears from falling, but it doesn't help. Jaskier lets out a wet sob and clings to Geralt, tucking his face into the Witcher's chest. 

"It's not- it's not working," he cries out, his voice broken and miserable. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong. Nothing's happening."

Jaskier _reeks_ of anxiety and shame, and Geralt has never seen him so vulnerable before. He places a gentle kiss on the top of the bard's head and weaves his arms around him, pulling Jaskier even closer. 

"You're okay, sweetheart. You're doing so well," Geralt says. And he doesn't stop whispering quiet, gentle words of reassurance and praise until there's no anxiety in Jaskier's scent anymore. "I think you need something more to get there, Jas. If you still want to."

He waits for Jaskier to nod and then pulls him from his chest gently. Geralt brings his hand up to hold Jaskier's face and stroke his thumb across the apple of his cheek, still wet with tears. And when Jaskier looks at him, his eyes all watery and cheeks pink, Geralt can't stop himself from pressing his lips against Jaskier's and pulling a soft gasp out of him.

They kiss until lust and passion starts to overwhelm them, until they're all out of breath and panting into each other's mouths, hands never letting go of each other. 

When Jaskier smiles, that small, private smile that's only reserved for Geralt, the Witcher knows his bard is ready to try again. And maybe it's time to change tactics. 

"I want you to get on your knees, Jaskier. Is that okay?"

When Jaskier realizes where this is going, he gives an eager nod and goes to stand up, but Geralt holds his shoulder, doesn’t let him move. 

"Is that okay?" he asks again, his voice low and firm. It must work since Jaskier's eyes widen and his hold on Geralt's arm tightens. 

"Yes, Geralt. I want this."

Geralt watches Jaskier slide from his lap and fall to his knees. And maybe it's not the most graceful landing, but the sight of his bard between his legs never fails to make Geralt's cock grow harder. 

A thrill of excitement rushes through Jaskier when Geralt starts undoing the buttons on his pants. He loves having Geralt in his mouth, the gentle weight of his cock always makes him lose his mind, makes him feel taken care of when Geralt praises him for being good. 

"Come here," Geralt grunts and cups the back of Jaskier's head to guide him forward, make him take his cock. And there's that tone again, that firm timbre in Geralt's voice that makes Jaskier overcome with the need to submit. He goes willingly, swallowing around Geralt until he's got half of his length in his mouth. 

And the heat of Jaskier's mouth is so inviting and perfect, Geralt has to close his eyes for a second to get his thoughts together and not thrust forward until he spills into the tight heat of Jaskier's throat. 

He lets Jaskier take his time as well, watches him try to even out his breathing and stop the excited trembling in his hands. 

"Can you take me deeper, little flower?"

Geralt knows he's big, was told so by multiple partners, and most times, Jaskier can only take him so far until he starts choking, and his jaw starts straining with effort, but Jaskier asked Geralt to push him, so that's what he is going to do. 

Jaskier closes his eyes and moves his head forward to take just a bit more of the Witcher's length, and then more, and more, until he feels Geralt's cock press against the back of his throat. The bard breathes through the need to gag and cough, taking deep, steady breaths through his nose, until he's got his reflexes under control again. 

And when he looks up at Geralt, his eyes teary, but so _trusting_ , the Witcher feels as if the wind has been knocked out of him. He feels a strong wave of emotion rush through every single nerve in his body. Adoration, love, lust. Pride, the strongest of all. 

"That's it, petal. You're doing so good," Geralt whispers and feels Jaskier shudder, eager for his praise to take him deeper. "Can't believe how brave you're being, letting me do this for you."

He sees Jaskier struggle not to move, to start bobbing his head and make Geralt spill in his mouth, but they both now it won't help Jaskier fall. So he holds Geralt in his mouth as his hands grip the Witcher's thighs, refusing to let go even for a second, needing to be close. 

"I know it's scary to let go, little flower, but you have to trust me to catch you," Geralt says, a soft smile playing on his lips. 

And those must be the right words, because the next second Jaskier lets out a needy whimper and- falls. His grasp on Geralt's thighs goes loose and his eyelashes flutter so prettily, Geralt _has_ to stroke his thumb just underneath Jaskier's eye gently. It's as if all of the tension, anxiety and stress leave his body all at once and he's left there, needy and wanting, ready for whatever Geralt's going to give him. 

The Witcher slides his hand into Jaskier's hair and starts playing with it, knows how much his bard loves it, knows he would purr with pleasure if it wasn't for Geralt's cock in his mouth. Jaskier's eyes are still closed and his breathing has slowed down by now, and he's _gone_. 

"Look how good you are for me," Geralt starts quietly, not to startle the boy out of the fragile headspace he is in. "No one else gets to see you like this, do they?"

Jaskier's fingers tighten on Geralt's thighs, but Geralt doesn't need a reaction to know how much these words affect him. How much they affect both of them. 

"You're _mine_ , Jaskier," Geralt growls before putting his hand on the nape of Jaskier's neck and squeezing. "No one lays a hand on you, not unless they want it broken."

And Jaskier actually moans at that. And Geralt _loves_ the way all of this possessive talk gets Jaskier hot and flushed with need. 

Geralt lets his bard hold him in his mouth for a while longer, murmuring soft praises from time to time until Jaskier starts to fidget and let out these tiny needy cries that make Geralt want to _wreck_ him. 

When Geralt gently pulls on Jaskier's hair to guide him off his length, the bard whines, but doesn't protest further, doesn't have enough energy to. 

"That's enough for today, little flower."

The cold air doesn't feel that great on Geralt's cock, but he doesn't let his attention stray away from Jaskier. He helps him stand upright and pulls his leggings down quickly, murmuring something about how Jaskier should wear these more often. 

He pulls Jaskier on his lap again and just- stops for a second. Lets himself look at the panting bard in front of him, admire the way his chest is rising and falling so quickly, the way his stomach is already glistening with precome, and the way his flushed cock is so hard, he must be aching. _Christ_.

Jaskier smells of arousal and need, and a little bit of pain. And Geralt can't get enough of his scent, can't stop himself from burying his nose in Jaskier's neck and just- breathing him in for a minute. 

Jaskier lets out another wanton moan and clings to Geralt like a lifeline, clutching his fingers in his shirt. 

"Geralt, Geralt, please-" Jaskier cries out, his voice raw and needy.

Geralt loves his bard's singing voice, but this? This is so much better.

"I've got you, petal," the Witcher whispers, right into Jaskier's ear. He wraps his palm around both of their cocks and starts stroking, slow and teasing at first and then faster and harder until they're both falling towards the edge. 

And Jaskier goes mad with the delicious friction against his cock, with the heat and weight of Geralt's length on his own. He starts trembling, all of his body tenses, and he's right there-

"Come, Jaskier," Geralt grunts and gives the bard another firm stroke, adding a twist at the end, and Jaskier _does_.

He comes with a silent scream and twists in Geralt's tight hold as the last spasm goes through his body. And he's so far down, so out of it, but he can still feel the bit of come that somehow got on his cheek. And he feels Geralt's hand _still_ stroking both of their cocks, and it's so- so soon, so overwhelming, so _everything_ , he can't hold the tears back. 

Geralt surges forward suddenly, capturing Jaskier's lips in a desperate, heated kiss, and spills over his own hand just a moment later, grunting lowly into his bard's mouth. 

When Geralt pulls away, Jaskier falls against his chest, exhausted but sated. He doesn't even try to open his eyes and just. Floats. 

Geralt smiles softly. He wouldn't dare pull Jaskier out of this state, not now. Not when it was so hard for him to reach it. The Witcher sits there, holding his bard close and carding his fingers through his soft hair, soothing, reminding Jaskier that he's got him, that Geralt's right there. 

It's rare that Geralt regrets not having a musical talent, but this is one of those moments. He can't really sing, or write ballads, but if he could, he'd sing about this Jaskier. The soft, malleable Jaskier that got his heart beating so much faster than it normally does. 

He’d keep the song to himself though, wouldn’t let anyone else hear it, because it’s only Geralt that Jaskier trusts to see him like this, to break him and make him whole again. And it’s that trust that keeps Geralt going, that reminds him that there’s more to life than monsters and coin.

And Geralt never really believed in destiny before, but _something_ brought him to that tavern two years ago, made him stay until a certain bard came in, glowing with youth and hope. And whatever it was, be it fate or chance, Geralt will never be able to repay what he owes.

**Author's Note:**

> Note to self: never write a fic in your first language and then translate it to English, because everything just sounds HELLA weird.
> 
> But I think I still feel good about this one :)


End file.
